Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank! Here Will We Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony. Sit, Jessica: Look, How The Floor Of Heaven Is Thick Inlaid With Patines Of Bright Gold; There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings, Still Quiring To The Young-eyed Cherubins. Such Harmony Is In Immortal Souls; But Whilst This Muddy Vesture Of Decay Doth Grossly Close It In, We Cannot Hear It.

Oh, That Way Madness Lies; Let Me Shun That.

Neither A Borrower Nor A Lender Be, For Loan Oft Loses Both Itself And Friend, And Borrowing Dulls The Edge Of Husbandry.

And This, Our Life, Exempt From Public Haunt, Finds Tongues In Trees, Books In The Running Brooks, Sermons In Stones, And Good In Everything.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.